


Christmas Future

by smarshtastic



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas Decorations, Getting Back Together, M/M, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Recovered Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 05:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: It’s been a year since Sombra found Jesse McCree passed out on the bar in Mexico, and circumstances have changed dramatically since then. For one thing, neither McCree or Reaper have tried to kill each other in that time - that’s a dramatic improvement from their first several encounters. For another, Reaper’s loyalty to Talon is slipping at an alarming rate. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.❄❄❄Reaper joins McCree for the holidays.





	Christmas Future

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CobaltPhosphene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltPhosphene/gifts).



> Happy Christmas, CobaltPhosphene! ❄ ♥ ❄

Reaper stands off to the side, doing his best to tuck himself into what passes for shadows in this place. There isn’t much darkness from which to conceal himself and observe, but maybe that’s okay. 

It’s been a year since Sombra found Jesse McCree passed out on the bar in Mexico, and circumstances have changed dramatically since then. For one thing, neither McCree or Reaper have tried to kill each other in that time - that’s a dramatic improvement from their first several encounters. For another, Reaper’s loyalty to Talon is slipping at an alarming rate. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. 

_ Here  _ is a small, one room apartment over a run down bar in New Mexico: McCree’s hideout. There’s a tiny kitchenette, a card table with two rickety chairs, and a sagging bed shoved into one corner. There’s a sofa too, ratty and stained, with a sheet thrown over the cushions to try to hide the worst of it. The dusty curtains are drawn over the two windows, keeping the light from the street out of the apartment. It’s a miracle that nobody has found this place yet, given McCree is a wanted man, but hiding in plain sight has always been a sort of specialty of McCree’s. 

Reaper is remembering more of these sorts of things too; things about McCree as he knew him before - before Reaper devoted himself to Talon, before Overwatch’s Swiss headquarters exploded, before McCree left Blackwatch. Left him. Reaper is surprised to find that that particular memory still stings, but he takes it as a good sign; maybe more memories will come back to him, filter their way through the shadows of his mind in spite of Talon’s best efforts to repress them. From his not-so-shadowy corner, Reaper watches McCree struggle with a string of lights. 

“You could help, you know,” McCree says irritably, fingers fumbling to unravel another snag in the string. “Instead of hiding in the corner like you’re the ghost of Christmas future or something.”

Reaper makes a face, which is mostly hidden under the hood of his sweatshirt. 

“I’m not hiding,” Reaper says. He takes a step towards McCree anyway, even though he feels strangely exposed here. McCree glances at him. 

“Good, ‘cause you’d suck at it if that was your best,” he says. Reaper lets his body dissolve into smoke, effectively tucking himself back into what little shadow the corner affords him. McCree lets out an exasperated sigh. “Alright, alright. Are you gonna help me or not?”

Reaper slides across the floor and re-forms closer to McCree. Not too close; he still feels like he has to keep his distance. Maybe it’s the way McCree looks at him, or maybe because Reaper is still unsure of this whole situation. He can feel the uncertainty radiating off McCree too, but then he thrusts the string of lights at Reaper, who now realizes that there’s chili peppers dangling at intervals along the string. 

“What  _ is  _ this?” Reaper asks. McCree narrows his eyes. 

“It’s  _ festive _ ,” McCree says defensively. 

“It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t think you get to decide what ridiculous looks like.”

Reaper looks back down at the string in his hands. McCree is at least  _ partially _ right - the getup he wears for Talon missions is a little bit over the top. But, for this particular… it’s not a mission, really, but “vacation” doesn’t feel right either - for this particular  _ occasion _ , then, Reaper dressed down: a dark hoodie with too-long sleeves and dark jeans, too. He’s kept the hood up, mostly to keep his face in shadow. He knows what his face looks like. He finds, oddly, that he doesn’t want McCree to stare. 

Together, McCree and Reaper hang the string of chili lights across the windows in relative silence. They bump shoulders when they meet in the middle and there’s a pause as McCree looks at Reaper,  _ really _ looks at Reaper. He can feel McCree’s dark eyes on him, probing. Reaper resists the urge to wraith away, but can’t quite bring himself meet McCree’s eyes on his own; there’s something in McCree’s expression that makes Reaper’s chest tighten up in a wholly unfamiliar way. 

The moment passes, though, and McCree moves away. Reaper remains rooted to the spot, still trying to process that strange feeling. Then McCree plugs in the lights and suddenly the whole room is bathed in a warm red and golden glow. Reaper turns his head up to look at the lights. The knot in his chest loosens. 

“You want a drink?” McCree asks. “If you do that kind of thing, still.”

Reaper turns to look at him. The glow of the lights makes McCree look softer, younger. A spark of something ignites in Reaper’s chest. 

“Why did you invite me here?” Reaper asks, the question coming out more bluntly than he means it to. Something crosses McCree’s face that Reaper can’t quite place before McCree turns away to pour himself a drink from a bottle of something brown. He doesn’t add any ice. 

“I thought it might…” McCree pauses, searching for the word. “Help.”

“Help?”

McCree huffs out a little frustrated breath. “You asked me to help you,” he says. He takes a healthy gulp from his glass. 

“This is helping me?” Reaper says, making a vague gesture at the small apartment. McCree looks at him again, his expression unreadable. 

“You said you didn’t remember what it was like to feel human. So, this is a thing normal humans do.”

“Hang ridiculous lights and drink liquor?” Reaper says, a bit unfairly. McCree frowns. 

“Look, if you don’t want to be here -”

“I do,” Reaper says quickly. This time, he meets McCree’s eyes. McCree swallows visibly and sets his glass down. 

“We used to spend Christmas like this,” McCree says. He speaks softly, so that Reaper has to lean in to hear his words. McCree has a faraway look in his eyes. Reaper might be imagining it, but it almost sounds like McCree’s voice wavers as he continues. “Not like  _ this _ , not exactly - usually we were working, running missions, hunting down bad guys. The usual. But we were almost always together, at the end of the day. We’d find a little quiet corner and share a bottle of some cheap liquor and we’d just... “ 

McCree trails off. Reaper waits, patiently, but McCree doesn’t say anything more. He picks up his glass and knocks back the rest of the contents. He reaches for the bottle again. Reaper wraiths forward, putting a hand on his wrist to stop McCree from lifting the bottle. McCree looks at him sideways. 

“Sombra found you passed out last year,” Reaper says by way of explanation. McCree huffs out a breath that might be laugh. 

“Yeah. Christmas is pretty miserable these days,” McCree says. Neither of them say anything for a few moments. Reaper realizes he’s still holding onto McCree’s wrist. He lets go, but McCree doesn’t reach for the bottle again. 

“Maybe things are changing,” Reaper says carefully. McCree raises an eyebrow. 

“Pretty optimistic of you to say,” McCree says. 

“I’m the ghost of Christmas future, remember? I know these things,” Reaper says. McCree blinks, then laughs - an honest to god, full-throated laugh. It makes that warm feeling in Reaper’s chest rekindle and spread outwards. After only feeling heat from emotions like anger, the soft warmth that now radiates through him is a pleasant change of pace. He smiles too, a small, unpracticed smile.  

“You’re full of surprises, ain’t you?”

Reaper shrugs. McCree shakes his head a little. He picks up the bottle and pours them each a drink. He holds out the glass to Reaper. 

“C’mon, let’s sit,” McCree says. He gestures to the sofa. Reaper accepts the glass from McCree. 

“And then?”

“And then you can tell me how much you remember. Maybe I’ll tell you a little bit about how we used to spend Christmas.”

Reaper thinks about this for a moment, then nods. “Ghost of Christmas past.”

McCree chuckles. “I guess so,” he says. He clinks the edge of his glass against Reaper’s. “Merry Christmas, Gabe.”

The sound of his name on McCree’s lips sends an unexpected, pleased shiver through Reaper. It’s a spark of hope that Reaper could hardly let himself acknowledge before, but now… He smiles again, a little wider. 

“Merry Christmas, Jesse.” 


End file.
